Who's to Say What's Said
by Mei Hitokiri
Summary: Following on from DuchessCloverly's video "Who Am I to Say", Mycroft writes to Greg to talk to apologise. With neither of them coping well with the split, who's to say what's said.
1. Chapter 1

It was fast approaching eleven at night, and Mycroft is still sat at his desk. Next to him lies a tumbler of cut-crystal – filled with nothing more than water, but it goes some way to alleviating the worst of the cravings. His pen has been in his hand for close to an hour now, and yet the page in front of him is still appallingly, frustratingly blank. There is little left to say, and yet a hive of words rush into his head every time he contemplates the seam along which his heart was torn. One word sits more prominently than the rest; the queen bee, staking her claim even as she sinks her sting into the open wound. Sorry.

* * *

Detective Inspector G M Lestrade  
Office 314  
New Scotland Yard  
London  
SW1H 0BG

Gregory,

As you will not accept my phone calls and I doubt very much that you will see me in person, I do hope you will instead give me the time in this manner to explain myself.

I must apologise. I had never intended to hurt you. Even a man such as I cannot forsee all outcomes; and choosing between how I feel for you and my duty to the country was one such of these. Whilst I know this is far from an adequate reason for my behaviour, I hope it goes some way towards lessening my villainous status.

Despite everything, yours.

Mycroft.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg has, for the first time in weeks, taken the lunch break that he's entitled to. He's had the letter for almost as long, but it's taken him until now to decide what to do about it. He grabs a sheet of paper from the printer and a biro off of his desk and scrawls his response. He checks his watch; enough time for a coffee, and then down to the gym to have a go at the punchbag.

* * *

Mr M Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
Belgravia  
London  
SW1X 8PG

Mr Holmes.

I would appreciate it if you did not contact me at work again.

G Lestrade.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes Mycroft considerably less time to decide how to reply. In his private study, at eight o'clock in the morning, he uncaps his monogrammed fountain pen and writes a brief missive. Perhaps, he hopes, if he tries enough times to get his message across, then one of them will work.

* * *

Mr G M Lestrade  
Apartment 19  
North Beacon Flats  
Westminster  
London  
SW1H 1NJ

Gregory,

I apologise profusely if my letter caused you any trouble at work; that was far from my intention. I would not wish for my actions to cause you any further distress.

Yours,

Mycroft.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg spends longer on this letter. He starts a twice, then decides whatever he writes on the third will be what he sends. He surprises himself with the length; he'd assumed that he had nothing left to say after their last, fateful… 'conversation'. Evidently he'd been mistaken. The scathing tone tastes as bitter as his bottle of beer; lingering at the back of his tongue like words unspoken.

* * *

Mr M Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
Belgravia  
London  
SW1X 8PG

Mr Holmes.

I won't ask how you managed to get hold of my home address. The letter did not cause any undue trouble at work, so do not worry yourself.

I understand that you had no real choice when it came to choosing between me and your work. I know that your job was – is – your priority.

No matter the time or the… activity we were engaged in you would answer their calls. Or emails. Or summons. No matter, I'm a big boy now. At least you weren't cheating on me.

Greg


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft reads and re-reads the letter over and over. He locks his office door and stares at the words, picturing each one, hearing Greg's voice skipping letters and blurring vowels. Whereas Greg's words were bitter and biting, his take a sweeter note; a lemon sorbet that's not quite sharp enough to clear the palate and instead leaves a tang at the back of the throat. If heartache were tears, he would drown.

* * *

Mr G M Lestrade  
Apartment 19  
North Beacon Flats  
Westminster  
London  
SW1H 1NJ

Gregory,

I cannot describe how much relief your recent letter brought me. Even if you cannot forgive me, that you understand my reasoning is a great weight off my shoulders. I cannot explain the nature of the reason that I was forced to choose, but you must believe that I thought this the safest option.

Your comment about my being at their beck and call brought a smile to my face. Do you remember the instance at Mummy's Summer Gala? I thought you were going to kill me; if my brother or Doctor Watson didn't get to me first.

I would like you to know that I would never have cheated on you. What your wife did to you was appalling and you should know that you deserve far better.

Far better than myself, really.

Yours,

Mycroft.


	6. Chapter 6

Greg tells himself that he won't reply. That Mycroft is right, and that he does deserve better. Deserves better than the sweet nothings murmured into his hairline as Mycroft got up and left at two am. Deserves better than the extravagant gifts turning up on his desk with a note to apologise for the cancellation of dinner. The reply is written and posted before his hand and brain connect.

* * *

Mr M Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
Belgravia  
London  
SW1X 8PG

Mr Holmes  
Mycroft

You need to stop putting yourself down. If you take nothing else from our relationship, take that.

I remember the look of shock on your face when I first asked you out. I wanted to see that over and over again. I know I achieved that goal. The way you looked when I first told you I loved you. When I asked you to come and meet my parents. When my parents asked if you intended to make an honest man out of me. When you took me to America, and I told you exactly what I wanted to do to you when the lights went down in the cabin. I'll never forget that.

You deserve happiness just as much as anyone else, Mycroft. You do so much for so many people that you deserve to have someone look after you. If nothing else, you would destroy yourself without someone to take care of you. I saw you at your weakest and I know you're just as human as the rest of us.

Greg


	7. Chapter 7

The Prime Minister passes him sidelong looks down the table as COBRA meet to discuss the healthcare crisis facing the country. Mycroft ignores him, and acts like there isn't a happy smile turning the corner of his mouth. His crystal glass is locked away, and he makes himself a cup of tea as soon as he walks through the door. The fire is glowing, and he takes his favourite armchair as he puts pen to paper.

* * *

Mr G M Lestrade  
Apartment 19  
North Beacon Flats  
Westminster  
London  
SW1H 1NJ

Gregory,

I too remember all of those incidents. Especially the latter. That still ranks as my most uncomfortable flight; even surpassing the one where I was bleeding profusely and carrying four broken bones.

I don't seem to be able to forget any of our moments together and have yet to work out if this is a curse of a blessing. With what I have done, I do not feel worthy of remembering… Though what I would do if I forgot such happiness is as good your guess as mine.

I will, as always, accept your views as, validly, your own. Yet as always I will not agree with them. I have done many a thing in my life I am not proud of, and to receive a reward such as you more than once seems a gross injustice in my favour.

Yours,

Mycroft.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg's fist grips the letter tightly, anger pulling the tendons taut like an inexperienced jockey at the reins. He writes, fuelled by emotion, but by the time he finishes his first few lines he's realised he's not really angry. Not at Mycroft , anyway. At the world. The country. The hand they've been dealt in life. A poker player never shows his cards, but Greg's never been good at gambling.

* * *

Mr M Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
Belgravia  
London  
SW1X 8PG

Mycroft

You make me sound like some sort of prize. I can guarantee you that I'm not. Hell, when we met I had just as many problems as the next man. I couldn't even keep the woman I married in my bed.

But that's not the point. We all do bad stuff in our lives; admittedly for most of us that's not wiping a small country off the face of the planet, but still, the principle remains. I've killed a man, but I'd still like another – a third – shot at happiness. I mean, I'll have to get over you first, and you're a pretty hard man to compare to. But hey.

Greg


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft writes his response over and over in his head. He cannot find the words to do anything other than beg Greg to come home. He surveys the flat and knows that he will live alone in a memory until his mind becomes too much and he succumbs. He sits at the piano and allows the keys to take the emotion from him. Only then does he write his drained response.

* * *

Mr G M Lestrade  
Apartment 19  
North Beacon Flats  
Westminster  
London  
SW1H 1NJ

Gregory,

That woman never deserved you. Nobody who treats you like that deserves you.

Please do not hold on to what we had. I, too, shall find moving on hard, but it must be done.

Yours,

Mycroft.


	10. Chapter 10

It's four am. Greg has been out all night chasing criminals across London. The adrenaline scalds his judgements and sends his cares running for the wind. He knows that he'll probably regret sending the letter, but as he jogs the half-mile to the post box all he can think about is how he'd love to be there when Mycroft reads it.

* * *

Mr M Holmes  
Diogenes Club  
Belgravia  
London  
SW1X 8PG

Mycroft

If you're going to find it hard to move on, and I'm going to find it hard to move on, why move on at all?

Greg


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft face drains to the point where he's pushed into a chair for fear of him collapsing. How can something that he wants so much cause such fear that he feels physically ill? He shakes as he writes his reply, turning his head from the paper to ensure he doesn't smudge the ink.

* * *

Mr G M Lestrade  
Apartment 19  
North Beacon Flats  
Westminster  
London  
SW1H 1NJ

Gregory,

Please do not ask such questions. I only have so much self-restraint, and it would kill me if you were hurt because of me.

Mycroft.


	12. Chapter 12

Greg reads the letter and knows. Suddenly things make sense. He pulls out his phone sends a hurried text, ignoring the crime scene in front of him.

**I'm hoping this is still the right number. –GL**

Mycroft has been pining for a distraction all afternoon. Budget meetings have always been the bane of his life. The text surprises him, but he doesn't let his mask fall.

**Indeed. MH.**

Greg breathes out a sigh, not realising he'd been worrying about having the wrong number. He draws the same air back in and hits send, hoping.

**Myc, has someone threatened you? –Greg**

Mycroft rolls his eyes, both at the ambassador's back and his phone. He should know better than to underestimate DI Lestrade.

**Gregory, I work for the government. I am always being threatened. MH.**

Greg laughs at the typically 'Mycroft' response. He deals with it the same way he deals with most things; a raised eyebrow, a dry sense of humour and an evasive response.

**You forget that I know when you're bullshitting me. –Greg**

Mycroft ponders his answer for a long minute, unsure as to why it was so important to tell Greg now, rather than to make him wait. Realising he's drumming his fingers on the oak desk, he snatches up the phone and replies.

**Yes, then. Somebody threatened you to get to me, and I realised how much danger I had put you in. MH.**

Greg shakes his head, drawing curious looks from his team. This can be fixed. It isn't as hopeless as he'd feared. Mycroft may be afraid of the lack of control, but they could deal with something like this. He knew. His heart was telling him so.

**Jesus, Myc. You know it's no better now, right? –Greg**

Mycroft frowns. Of course it was better. To everybody else, he is alone. The only ones that know how he truly feels are at his back – or so he hopes – leaving Greg safe. Where he should be. As much as he might want to, he has no right to compromise Greg's safety for his own selfishness.

**I fail to understand what you're implying. MH.**

Greg taps out a reply one handed, only half listening to the witness' statement. They're just a wannabe, as far as he can tell, wanting desperately to be involved in the incident but with nothing useful to add. Mycroft is more important.

**That's a first. –Greg**

Mycroft's lips quirk in one of his rare genuine smiles. He replies swiftly, then turns back to the paperwork; signing the questionably high budget off with a flourish.

**Quite the comedian. MH.**

An hour passes. The pile of paperwork is half of its original height. He taps out another text, concerned that the previous promptitude has lapsed.

**Gregory? MH.**

Another hour. He checks the database and sees that Greg swiped out of New Scotland Yard at twelve minutes past one to attend a crime scene. He accesses the CCTV feeds. There are a few officers and forensics, but no DI. A bitter taste at the back of his throat causes panic to flare in his chest. He cannot have thrown this away, not when this lifeline has been thrown to him.

**I have not offended you, have I? MH.**

Thirty minutes. He tells himself this will be his last; if Greg doesn't reply, then that is that. He absolutely must move on.

**Gregory? MH.**

Ten minutes. Mycroft's phone sounds and he nearly knocks over his cup in his haste to grab it. The text burns across his eyes and he knows with some certainty that he will be sick.

**I HAVE DI LESTRADE. I INTEND TO KILL HIM.**

In blind panic, he types a text; hoping to whatever may be out there that this is some horrific kind of joke.

**Gregory?!**


	13. Chapter 13

Greg relents, point proven. In the lack of signature – a slip Mycroft would only ever make when in a particularly bad way – he can read everything that should be hidden. With a fond smile on his face and a flutter in his stomach he sends his message.

**I'm fine. I asked one of my team to text you. Proved my point though. I'm still a weakness and I'm still in danger. –Greg**

Mycroft's legs give out beneath him and he sags into his chair, not having noticed that he'd stood. Elbows on the desk, he rests his forehead on his palms and just breathes.

**You are not amusing. MH.**

Something of an understatement, though he has the feeling that Greg will know his true response. The burn of bile at the back of his throat is a harsh reminder of just how right Greg is.

**But yes, I suppose you're right. MH.**

Greg just about manages to supress the urge to punch the air. He knows logic will win out, and that Mycroft will see sense. He hastily taps out a response, chest constricting with the hope of a loss re-won.

**So I might as well be a weakness and be in danger, and get the benefit of it. –Greg**

Mycroft sighs. More than anything, yes, is what he should say; but he can't. The last time he had put someone in danger for his own selfishness, he had watched his treasured baby brother jump off the top of Saint Bartholomew's.

**I will not put you in danger. MH.**

Greg pushes. He knows that if he pushes he will find the break in Mycroft's armour where the pieces overlap and sink straight through. He just has to hope he doesn't go all the way to the other side.

**Then let me put myself in danger. –Greg**

"The straw that breaks the donkey's back" has, until now, seemed something of a far-fetched idiom. A pointed glance he has his car waiting outside his office, ready to send him home. Each step chips away at the wall, until the dam bursts and he cannot hold it in any longer. He has needed this far more than he had realised, and his skin prickles with the knowledge that he will once more be held safe through the night.

**Your things are still in the bathroom. Your pillow lost your scent three nights back, but I still hold it to sleep. Your DVD collection is still stacked in an unruly manner to the left of the television. I haven't found the key to the drink's cabinet, though not for lack of trying. I miss you. Myc.**

Greg has hailed a taxi before he even reads the text; the syllables of Mycroft's home address a muscle memory that has been aching to repeat for far too long. He could cry at how lost his partner has been, turning to his only vice, and yet denying himself even that comfort. He reads it twice before he spots the shortened name, and he feels the first tear crest his cheek. He sits back in the taxi, eyes turned to the London skyline and phone gripped in his hand.

**I still have the key to the cabinet. And my door key. I'll be home in ten. –Greg**


End file.
